


A Certain Kind of Consolation

by Muccamukk



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Era, Caretaking, Closeted Character, Comfort Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Lewis Nixon/Richard Winters, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pneumonia, Shameless Smut, Threesome - M/M/M, Trauma, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 04:52:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16443266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/pseuds/Muccamukk
Summary: In the dog days of the war, Nixon and Winters offer Carwood what comfort they can.





	A Certain Kind of Consolation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kunstvogel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kunstvogel/gifts).



> This fic covers the period from Breaking Point to Points, and references canonical character death and trauma. It also contains Nix's alcoholism at pretty rock bottom levels. In the _The Army Makes You a Bit Kinky_ line, there's very mild authority and uniform kink, and some D/s overtones in the smut.

**Bastogne, Belgium**

Ever since Hoobler, Carwood had been the one to bring Easy's casualty reports to the battalion CP. It wasn't that Dike wouldn't do it—probably, eventually—but Dike didn't know the men like Carwood and Dick Winters did. It seemed more humane for Carwood to just tell Winters and look at the ground while grief flashed across his face, and maybe Nixon leaned over and patted Winters' shoulder. That way it would a private moment of understanding between Toccoa men, not Winters having to pretend to his junior officer that it didn't hurt because he had a company captain who didn't care which of his men had died.

So it was Carwood who went to the CP the night Muck and Penkala died, and looked Dick Winters in the eye and recited the casualty list with an even tone, and then looked down at his boots and pretended that he didn't hear the soft moan that was all that Winters would allow himself to voice on the news that two men he'd known for two and a half years were gone forever.

It was more than Carwood had done. He didn't think he'd felt anything since he'd seen what was left of Bill's and Joe's legs splattered across the snow of the Bois Jacques.

Carwood nodded slightly, and started to turn away, but Nixon called him back. "Lipton," he said, "wait a minute, okay?"

"Sir," Carwood said dully. He turned back to the CP, and when he looked up enough to see Winters, he felt his own breath catch as it had when the dud shell had landed not four feet away.

Winters looked awful, pale and shaking, with his arms wrapped tightly around himself. Nixon was sitting a few feet away, and looking not at his best friend but at Carwood, expression tight with concern. Nixon's dark beard made his skin look even more fair, and Carwood had to look away, as he had since he first saw Nixon at Toccoa. This was the kind of boy who got him in trouble.

"Sit down for a minute, Sergeant," Nixon said.

"Sir, I..." Carwood started to say, but he was too cold and too fogged with grief to come up with a coherent objection. "I can't, sir."

"Sure you can," Nixon insisted. He patted the narrow space between himself and Winters, gloved hand thudding dully on frozen stone. "I'll make it an order if I have to."

"Yes, sir." Carwood looked at Winters, who was watching him with a distant, almost dreamy expression and saying nothing. Carwood did as he was told, and sat down.

They were all wearing every piece of clothing they owned, and no body heat could make it through the heavy wool. Carwood still found that the solid men sitting on either side of him with their shoulders pressed against his warmed something in him. He let his body slump forward just a little, a surrender he wouldn't allow himself within the sight of any of the men.

Nixon wrapped an arm around Carwood's shoulders and pulled him more tightly against his side. Now even through the layers of wool Carwood felt a flicker of true warmth. Winters leaned across to lay his arm over Nixon's, brushing the back of Carwood's helmet. Carwood tipped his head so the scrap of bare skin above his scarf and below his helmet rested on Winters sleeve.

Carwood didn't know what was happened between the three of them, or what his officers intended, but he didn't care. It felt too good to just sit for a minute and absorb the warmth and support they offered. For just a minute, Carwood didn't want to have to think, not about the friends he'd lost, and not about the consequences of every decision his captain was too afraid to make. He wanted to sit still and silent and to feel nothing.

If Nixon had offered his flask, Carwood would have downed the whole thing in one long swallow. He didn't, but Winters leaned forward and picked up a tin mug of coffee and held it up to Carwood. It was tepid against Carwood's freezing hands, but when Carwood lifted it to his lips, it tasted like the real thing. The men had spent weeks reboiling grounds until they barely coloured the water, even after supplies started to come in, but somehow the CP had real goddamn coffee. Nixon was some kind of magician.

The real goddamn coffee splashed onto his gloves and immediately started to freeze. Carwood realised that his hands were shaking hard and quickly drank the rest of the cup. His teeth had started to chatter, but not from cold.

Carwood felt something spring free in his chest, like the pin off a grenade, and for a second he forgot how to breathe. The pain of loss upon loss over the past two weeks resounded through his entire body and he felt dizzy and faint. It wasn't possible. Carwood couldn't be expected to take any more, no man could. If he stayed here one more minute, he would drown in grief, and not be able to crawl free.

Then he heard Nixon making a soft nonsense sound, as his helmet rested against Carwood's. Winters' arm dropped and he tugged his glove free with his teeth, then Winters' strong fingers were kneading the muscles along the back of Carwood's neck. Amazingly, Winters' hands were warm. Carwood closed his eyes and let his head drop forward, the simple touch the most extraordinary thing he'd felt in what must be years.

Carwood whimpered slightly as Winters continued to massage his neck and Nixon held him tight against his side. No wonder Winters shared a foxhole with him; Nixon put off heat like an open wood stove. Carwood's head was still spinning but with giddiness now, like it had for those bizarre moments when the first shells fell, before he knew about Joe.

Joe. The men needed him. Half the noncoms were replacements now too, and they needed Carwood to hold their hands and get them through. Don Malarkey was somewhere out on the line, looking shattered and trying to remember how to pray, and no one else would help him.

"I have to get up," Carwood said.

"All right," Nixon told him, but he stroked up and down Carwood's back before letting him go. Winters squeezed the back of Carwood's neck tightly, shaking it like he was a kitten, then let go.

"Sir," Carwood said curtly, and stood. He felt the warm and comfort fall away from him like bath water. He left the CP without meeting either of their eyes or looking back. Dike would have had him up on charges, but of course the point was that Dike wasn't there, and never would be.

He still wasn't sure what had happened, or what the moments had meant. Surely it was just Winters bucking up a staff sergeant who was clearly faltering. He shouldn't have appeared so weak and proved to his officer that he needed help. He should be supporting Winters, not the other way around. Carwood flipped his collar up to cover the lingering warmth of Winters' hand.

Nixon had started it. That was the part that Carwood didn't get. He'd barely talked to Nixon in the past year. Nixon lived like his sleeve was sewed to Winters' but didn't really talk to the men, just the officers. Why had he cared what happened to Carwood? Or had it been that Nixon cared what happened to Winters, and that bullying Carwood into slowing down long enough to let Winters look after him played into that somehow?

Carwood shook his head to clear it. He didn't have time to worry what Second Battalion's staff was doing, let alone regiment. He had to see to his men.

  
**Haguenau, France**

Carwood was pretty out of it when Luz dropped him off at his new billet. He wasn't even completely sure what town Second Battalion was in, just that they'd driven for a couple of hours to get to it. Luz had appointed himself Carwood's jeep driver, even though Carwood was pretty sure that first lieutenants didn't rate jeeps or drivers. They'd put the top up and the radiator on, and Carwood had dozed most of the way.

"Here ya are, sir," Luz said. He was actually holding the door open for Carwood, and hadn't put a sarcastic emphasis on the word _sir_ , which made Carwood worry that he might actually be dying. Looking up at the dozen stairs to the front of the narrow row house Luz had parked in front of, Carwood wasn't sure that dying wouldn't be a better option.

"Currahee," Carwood muttered and hauled his barracks bag out off the seat beside him. All he had to do was put one foot in front of the other and take the steps one at a time. Then he'd be in a nice warm house—or if it wasn't warm, it'd at least be out of the wind—and he could find a corner to collapse in. He should be helping whatever platoon he'd been attached to settle in, but when he'd asked Spiers for an assignment, Spiers had threatened to shoot him.

When Carwood turned to ask Luz who else was billeted in this house, he found that Luz had already climbed back in the jeep and was in the process of putting it into gear. Carwood watched dully as it pulled out of sight, hopefully either back to the motor pool or to find first platoon, and not going in search of trouble. When it was gone, Carwood trudged up the stairs and through the front door. Inside there was a hall on one side and more stairs on the other. The house was warm enough to take Carwood's breath away, and he closed the door quickly.

He went through to the tiny kitchen/dining room on the ground floor and wondered who had lived there before. Had logistics kicked out the French residents, or had they fled the German advance, which had only recently been halted? First Battalion had probably been livening in it until that morning, and had left muddy jump-boot tracks to prove it.

Whatever the case, someone had already put coal in the stove and the house was warmer than anything Carwood had felt since Mourmellon, nearly two months before. What he assumed was a maid's room led off from the kitchen, and he dumped his ruck next to the bed before collapsing onto it himself. He leaned his M1 against the wall, and stared at it. Should he be carrying a pistol now? He didn't know half as much as he should about being an officer, battlefield commission or not.

He should get undressed he knew, but his bootlaces had frozen into a solid lump, and when he bent to untie them Carwood started coughing and wasn't able to stop for a long time. When he finally caught his breath, he considered just curling up on the bed fully dressed, but the idea of sleeping between real sheets was too appealing.

The door banged, and Carwood heard multiple boot thumping across the floor. One set ran up the stairs above Carwood's room, and then back down again, sounding like what Carwood's mother would have called "A herd of drunken elephants."

At the same time, the other set of boots thumped into the kitchen. Carwood leaned forward to see who it was and caught Captain Nixon rummaging through the cupboards.

"Sir," Carwood said, voice scraping the inside of his throat.

"Oh, there you are," Nixon said, not sounding surprised to find a junior lieutenant sharing a billet with a regimental staff officer and—Carwood assumed—a battalion commander. "Feeling any better, Lipton?"

Carwood shrugged. "Good to be warm, sir."

"Sure is." Nixon found a glass and pulled a bottle of Vat 69 out of his own barracks bag to fill it. How the hell he'd gotten that, Carwood would never know. Probably the same way as he'd gotten Winters the coffee in the Bois Jacques. Nixon poured two fingers into the glass, eyed it assessingly and then added a splash more. "Here you go, Lipton. Medicinal." He stood in the doorway, holding out the glass, but for Carwood to get it, he'd have to stand up, and he didn't know if he could any more.

The floorboards creaked, and then Winters was standing behind Nixon, almost resting his chin on Nixon's shoulder. Carwood wanted to tell them to be more careful, to warn them that someone might see, but he couldn't take his eyes off the intimate familiarity of how they stood. Nixon's hand had drifted back to brush fingers with Winters', and Carwood remembered with sudden vividness Winters massaging the back of his neck, giving him a few moments rest in the middle of the chaos before Foy.

"He still awake?" Winters asked, voice warm and fond.

"Can't actually tell," Nixon answered. He pulled away from Winters and dropped into a crouch in front of Carwood. He was still holding the glass of scotch, and now that he was close enough, Carwood took it. At least his hands weren't shaking this time.

Carwood sipped the drink, holding it in his mouth as the flavours exploded through his senses. He didn't know if he'd had good whiskey since England, and the sweet smoky flavour felt surreal. Where was this world where he was warm, and no one was shooting at him, and his officers were giving him scotch?

Nixon knelt next to Carwood's boot and started picking at the laces. He had his gloves off and was melting them with his fingers.

"Sir..." Carwood started to protest, but stopped when Winters dropped down beside Nixon and started on the other boot. Carwood should ask them to stop, say that he was just getting to those, and he didn't need any help, but the two heads bent in front of him, one dark and one bright, took the words away.

"Let's just get you settled," Nixon said. He tugged the bootlaces free, and then pulled the whole boot off. Winters followed suit a moment later, but by then Nixon was already working at the buttons of Carwood's coat.

"Sirs," Carwood said, trying again. The alcohol was already singing through his blood, better than anything he'd felt in months, and Carwood's world had gotten a little fuzzy around the edges. He gave up and took another swallow of scotch to help it along. It tasted like somewhere better and far away from the war. No wonder Nixon was addicted.

Nixon had Carwood's coat open and pushed it off along with his suspenders. Winters lifted Carwood's helmet off and ruffled his hair before tugging his scarf free as well. Nixon undid Carwood's belt and started unbuttoning his fly.

"Captain!" Carwood managed with a little more force. He shouldn't have had that second drink.

"Relax," Nixon said.

"For once, your virtue actually is safe around Nix," Winters added, much more reassuringly. "He's just putting you to bed."

"Not taking you to bed," Nixon concluded, putting his hand in the middle of Carwood's chest and pushing him back onto the bed.

Resigning himself to his fate, Carwood downed the rest of the glass rather than spill it. The mouthful of alcohol burned his throat and made him giddy. He hardly noticed Winters pulling his pants off while Nixon tugged at the blankets until Carwood was actually in the bed.

"You're too sick to get up to anything anyway," Nixon concluded. He straightened and turned back to the kitchen.

Winters ruffled Carwood's hair again and smiled down at him. Carwood had seen him smile so rarely in the last few months that he'd forgotten how it changed Winters' face, softening him, reminding Carwood of how young he was. How young they all were. It had been Carwood's twenty-fifth birthday a few weeks before—unmarked by everyone except Johnny and Tab—and he already felt twice that, especially today.

"'Night, Major," Carwood said blearily, taking pride in Winters' overdue promotion.

Behind Winters, Nixon laughed. Winters smile widened and he bent down and kissed the side of Carwood's face, between his cheek and the edges of his mouth, just where his scar ended. "Afternoon, Lieutenant," he said, as he pulled away.

That was right, it was barely 1400. Carwood, should be doing... a lot of different things. But the bed was soft, and the blankets piled on top of him were impossibly warm, and he couldn't seriously consider moving. He watched through half-closed eyes as Nixon reached down and pulled Winters to his feet.

In the doorway, Nixon wrapped his arms around Winters' waist kissed him lightly on the mouth before drawing him into the kitchen and out of sight.

Carwood would have to talk to them about that. They needed to be more careful who saw. Carwood would tell them later.

  
**Mannheim, Germany**

Carwood found the body in the middle of doing one last sweep of the streets to make sure first platoon were all tucked into their beds. He'd been crossing the mouth of an alley when his boot hit something soft and unexpected, and Carwood had his M1 levelled at it before he could think.

The body shifted, and Carwood saw a flash of a Screaming Eagle patch, and lowered his rifle and fumbled for his flashlight. Someone was going to catch hell for being this sloppy. Carwood didn't care if no one had resisted and all the locals claimed not to be Nazis. They were still in enemy territory, goddammit.

"What?" the man on the ground demanded, and Carwood recognised the voice a second too late to keep from shining the flashlight in Nixon's eyes anyway. Nixon's hand came up to block the light, and Carwood saw that his palms were muddy and scraped up. He'd probably tried to catch himself on the way down, and not had the will to get up again.

"Captain Nixon, sir," Carwood said, lowering the light. He knelt at Nixon's shoulder and tried to see if there was any other damage. It looked like mostly mud. As he leaned in, Carwood got a whiff of Nixon's breath and flinched back before he could stop himself. The man smelled like a moonshine shack, and not one of the higher-quality operations. "Let's get you back to your billet, sir."

Nixon made a non-committal noise and started to drop his hand. It looked like he still thought that sleeping in the street for the rest of the night was a pretty solid plan. If it had been any other officer—save Winters—Carwood would have been tempted to leave him to it and let him catch hell in the morning. But it was Nixon, so Carwood caught his arm and grabbed a handful of his shirt at the other shoulder, and yarded him up to a sitting position.

"Come on, sir. Get up," he said, trying not to let the anger show in his voice. Damn Nixon and his damn drinking, and his damn dog, while Carwood was at it. What right did he have to fall apart, when they'd all been holding themselves together with spit and baling wire for almost a year now? What did losing a wife Nixon had never wrote and had been sleeping around on for years matter compared to everything they'd been through? Of course, the problem with being angry was that Nixon had been through it right alongside them, even when he didn't have to be. Carwood sighed. "You can't stay here."

"I can," Nixon muttered, but he let Carwood sling his arm over his shoulder and haul him to his feet. "It was a perfectly good alley. You shoulda stayed with me," Nixon slurred as they limped out into the man street. Nixon was at least holding some of his weight up, and sort of helping walk, when he wasn't tripping over his own feet. "Shoulda stayed."

"It was just fucking dandy," Carwood snapped. "Where's your billet, sir?" Carwood had a vague notion that battalion staff was at the very far end of the street, and wasn't looking forward to the hike. He didn't want to get anyone's help though either. Maybe he could just tip Nixon into the back of Winters' jeep and leave him there overnight. That's be fine, better than the ground anyway, unless it rained like it had the night before.

"Dunno," Nixon muttered. He lifted his head enough to squint down the darkened street, then shook his head. "Yup, no idea."

"Great." Carwood knew that Winters had claimed a small gate house at the edge of the neighbourhood Second had taken over, and that was a lot closer and didn't involve as many stairs. "Come on," Carwood said again, dragging them around in a half circle, "let's go find the major."

He heard Nixon sigh, but he didn't protest, so Carwood dragged him around the corner and half a block along the intersecting street until he got to Winters' house. Someone had helpfully stencilled _2nd Battalion CP_ on the door in black paint.

They made enough noise getting through the gate and up the path that Winters already had the door open when they got too it. Winters was in his shorts and undershirt, and Carwood had clearly woken him up. Lamplight glowed behind him, casting a halo around his rumbled red hair and his face in shadow, but Carwood could guess at his expression. 

"Found him in the street, sir," Carwood explained as he angled Nixon so that Winters could wedge a shoulder around his other arm. "Didn't know where else to put him. Sorry, sir."

"No, you did the right thing," Winters said. He sounded tired, much more so than he had when Carwood had seen him half an hour before. "Come one, Lew," Winters said, "let's get you to bed."

Nixon made a protesting jumble of words, but still wasn't resisting. It was easier going with two people carrying him, and Carwood and Winters got him through two narrow doorways and into the back bedroom. It was dark in there, and they almost dumped Nixon on the floor instead of the bed. Nixon was awake enough to catch himself on the way down, and collapsed backwards onto the edge of the mattress. "Ugh," was all he said, and Carwood couldn't argue with that.

"I'll get the lamp," Winters said. Seemed like the electricity was busted in here, which was true of about half the town. The Air Corps had hit it not long before, and it was amazing that anything was left of the place.

Carwood helped Nixon steady himself and sit on the edge of the bed, then started working on his bootlaces, thinking of that strange night outside of Haguenau a few months before. Maybe they'd be even after this, though Carwood didn't think any of them could ever stop owing the world to each other. What payment could be equal to the value of hope in the dark?

Nixon groaned and leaned down to steady himself on Carwood's shoulders. "It's all right," he muttered, seeming to realise what Carwood was doing about when Carwood got his right boot off. Nixon moved his hand so that he cupped the side of Carwood's neck affectionately. His palm was still slick with blood. "You don't have to do that, Lip."

"Sure I do," Carwood answered. He heard Winters moving around outside, and wanted to take this chance to chew Nixon out for being stupid, to tell him that if he didn't straighten up and fly right, he was going to get himself killed, to tell him that losing Nixon would break Winters' heart. The problem was that Carwood was pretty sure that Nixon knew all that, had told himself the same thing a hundred times a day, and still kept on drinking. Carwood yanked the other boot off and said in a low tone that he knew Winters wouldn't be able to overhear, "Seems like it's about the only thing I can do."

Nixon groaned and flopped back onto the bed, not bothering to take his belt off or get under the covers. "Sorry," he said, then passed out.

Winters came in a minute later with the lamp, a basin of water and a first aid kit. "Let's get a look at those hands." Winters' tone was even, almost mild, like it didn't bother him that Carwood had found his lover unconscious in the street. Carwood didn't know if Winters was pretending for his own sake, or for Carwood's, and couldn't think of a way to ask, or to say that he didn't have to put up a facade for Carwood.

Instead of talking, Carwood took Nixon's far wrist and turned the hand palm up for Winters to wash and sprinkle with sulfa powder. Nixon flinched and groaned but didn't wake.

"That's not so bad, sir," Carwood said when they were done both hands. He didn't have to lie; under the grime, it was just a few abrasions. "Should heal up in a few days."

"Yeah. If he's careful," Winters said. The words—or maybe it was the very thought of Nixon maybe for once being careful—seemed to snap something in Winters, and slumped forward until his head rested on the edge of the mattress. He stayed there for a long time, breathing deeply but not crying, until Carwood, not knowing what else to do, put his hand on Winters' shoulder.

Carwood couldn't think of anything to say that would help, so he said nothing. He wished he could wrap his arms around both of them—Winters and Nixon—and provide some kind of solace in the middle of all this, and maybe find some for himself too. He wished that even if he did, that anything like that could be enough, but Carwood knew that he couldn't, and that it wouldn't be. He patted Winters' shoulder and stood to tidy up the first aid supplies and bloodied rags.

Winters stood with him, and took the basin out of Carwood's hands. "It's fine," he said, which was the biggest lie Carwood had heard since _We'll be in Berlin by Christmas_. The lamplight cast half of Winters' face in shadow, but Carwood could still see the worry and exhaustion in his eyes. "You go on to bed, Carwood."

"Yes, sir," Carwood said. "You'll be all right with him now?" The offer to do anything that Winters might asked of him hung in the air between them, though Carwood had no idea what that could possibly be.

"We're okay here," Winters answered, and this time he sounded a little more like he believed it. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

"I'll see you in the morning then, sir," Carwood told him, and left Winters to stand vigil.

He made himself walk away down the street and not turn to look back at crack of light gleaming out under that blackout curtain, or think about what might be happening in that little room. Carwood didn't remember to clean Nixon's blood off his neck until he was shaving the next morning.

  
**Zell am See, Austria**

"Major Winters's looking for you," Welsh said.

Carwood nodded tiredly. It turned out that being a staff officer was a lot more work than Nixon ever made it out to be. In the day and a half since Carwood's transfer, he felt like he'd personally looked at every billet in Salzburg. He'd been looking forward to putting his feet up with a small glass of Göring's brandy and the satisfaction of useful work well done. It didn't sound like that was going to happen. "The major in his office, sir?"

Welsh half nodded, half shrugged. "Said he was headed there."

Winters' office was also Winters' rooms, taking over one of the suites overlooking the lake. Carwood wondered if the boy from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, ever looked out the window and wondered how the hell he'd gotten there. Carwood knew that he sure did. Almost every day, actually.

The double doors to the suite were closed, but Winters opened them as soon as Carwood knocked. He stepped aside to let Carwood in, and then closed and locked the door behind him.

Nixon was in his usual armchair near the window, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other hooked over the chair leg. His suspenders hung at his hips and the top three buttons of his shirt were undone. A glass or scotch rested at his elbow, a half-empty bottle beside it. When he saw Carwood looking, Nixon raised the glass in salute and took a drink.

"You were looking for me, sir?" Carwood said to Winters, tearing is eyes away the image of Lewis Nixon in mid debouch. It wasn't like he'd stopped drinking after everything that had happened in Germany, but Austria seemed to have brought back the cheerful drunk that Carwood had first met, and Carwood could live with that.

Winters coughed, and—though he was as perfectly put together as always in his service uniform less the jacket, boots polished to a shine, tie textbook perfect—his cheeks coloured, and he glanced away from Carwood, looking back to Nixon.

"For Christ's sake, Dick," Nixon muttered, but he didn't get up or say anything else.

"Sir?" Carwood asked again.

He wasn't sure which made Winters shift into gear, but Winters nodded shortly to himself and said, "I'm going to ask you a question, Carwood." He was the only person in years to called Carwood by his Christian name, and the caress of flat Pennsylvania vowels over it always made Carwood want to blush. "If the answer to that question is 'no' then I will forget I even asked. No consequences, no conditions. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Carwood said, though he was only starting to. "What's the question, sir?"

"Nix and I are lovers," Winters said with shocking plainness. "You know, Harry might suspect. No one else does."

"You should be more careful, sir," Carwood said, and he could feel his own face heating.

Nixon laughed. "Oh, you have no idea how careful he is," he said, and though Carwood didn't look back, he heard the glass clink as Nixon poured another shot. "The only reason we let our hair down around you is that we know about you, too."

"Oh," Carwood said. He didn't see how they could. He'd been double twice damned careful, more so in the army than even in West Virginia, which was saying something. He hadn't gotten laid since that pass to Nice in April because he refused to risk fooling around within the division. He felt a flash of fear, even though this was Major Winters, and he would never hurt Carwood. Winters had just promoted Carwood to battalion staff to keep him out of combat in Japan. Winters had been open with Carwood about having a male lover for months. He could feel his heart racing, and it wasn't entirely because of fear any more. "What's the question, sir?"

"Would you like to join us this evening?" Winters asked him, again shockingly direct, but his expression was anything but. His chin had dropped and he was looking up at Carwood though his lashes. Carwood could tell Winters kept wanting to look at Nixon but was making himself hold Carwood's gaze.

"Uh," said Carwood. All suspicions in the world didn't seem to have prepared him for the question asked flat out. "As a one time thing, sir"—why was he calling Winters sir when he was in the middle of propositioning Carwood for a highly-illegal _ménage a trois_?—"Or, um...?"

"Does that change your answer?" Winters asked. Carwood didn't know how he could stand so perfectly still when he clearly wanted to rattle to pieces. "I guess maybe we could see how tonight went, and..."

"Okay," Carwood said.

Nixon sighed. "'Okay' as in 'yes,' or 'okay' as in 'we're going to keep negotiating until I die of blue balls'?"

"Yes." Carwood couldn't believe he said it. Before the unreality of the situation faded into some kind of panic, he stepped forward and cupped the side of Winters' jaw with his palm. He raised his eyebrows and Winters bent and let Carwood close the distance until their lips met.

It had been longer than since Nice that Carwood had kissed someone, and he felt the scratch of Winters' stubble against the corner of his mouth as they got the angle right. Winters mouth opened, letting Carwood touch his lips with his tongue, and Winters' hand rose to rest on Carwood's hip, squeezing lightly through his jacket. Carwood moved his mouth slowly over Winters', savouring the kiss and the feel of their bodies so close together. His thumb rubbed across Winters' cheek, and one of them moaned softly.

"Jesus," Nixon whispered. Carwood heard the glass thunk down on the table, the sound of boots, then Nixon's breath against his ear. Nixon's took Carwood by the hips—one hand overlapping Winters'—and kissed the back of his neck. Carwood could smell the whiskey on his breath and whatever cologne he'd started wearing again now that they were all safe.

Winters broke away from the kiss and leaned over Carwood's shoulder so that he could kiss Nixon, pressing Carwood's body between them. Nixon chuckled against Winters' mouth and started undoing the buttons of Carwood's jacket. Carwood could feel Winter's cock hard against his own, and Nixon's against his ass. "Oh, god," Carwood said, and leaned back against Nixon's chest.

"Hey, Lew," Winters said, voice low and throaty right next to Carwood's ear, "you still want to...?"

"Oh, yeah," Nixon said wholeheartedly. Whatever it was meant that he stepped back before he'd done more than get Carwood's jacket open.

"Hey," Carwood protested, and turned to face Nixon—this made Winters snug up behind him and start pulling Carwood's shirt out of his pants—only to stop short when he realised that Nixon was unbuttoning his own shirt. He wasn't wearing an undershirt, and his skin gleamed with perspiration. They were the same height, so Carwood didn't even have to stand on his toes a little to kiss Nixon.

Carwood was pretty sure he was getting a buzz just off Nixon's breath, but Nixon's kiss was soft and sloppy and he kept unbuttoning his own shirt, hands working down while Winters' worked up Carwood's chest.

"That's more like it," Nixon said when he drew back. He shrugged out of his shirt, letting it fall to the floor, and held his arms out from his sides.

"Feeling left out, were you?" Winters asked.

"You know me, always got to be the centre of attention," Nixon said. Carwood wanted to run his hands up Nixon's chest, but he was backing away, grinning, then disappearing through the doors to the bedroom.

"You know, sir," Carwood said, "it'd show him a thing or two if we just stayed out here and, ah!"

The last word was lost as Winters dragged his nails up Carwood's chest and bit lightly at the side of his neck. When Winters' hands slid back down Carwood's sides, his fingertips dipped under his belt and traced Carwood's hipbones. "I think you an call me 'Dick,'" Winters said. "And if we stay out here, we're going to miss a heck of a show."

"Could be worth it," Carwood said. He turned and took Winters' face in his hands and kissed him again. Ridiculously, Carwood was still wearing his tie, and now Winters pulled it undone and dropped it on top of Nixon's shirt.

"Could be," Winters agreed. "Bet it isn't."

Carwood would have been offended, except he heard a groan of pleasure from the bedroom. Now he really wanted to know what Nixon was doing, so he let Winters lead him through the French doors.

Nixon lay naked on the middle of the double bed, his hips propped up on a pillow. His hands moved between his widely spread legs, and at first Carwood thought Nixon was jerking himself off, but then he realised Nixon was reaching around his cock and thrusting his fingers in and out of his asshole. Nixon moaned and rolled his head back on the pillow as his hips lifted slightly to meet his sliding fingers.

"Jesus H. Christ on the cross," Carwood said, stopping dead to stare. The afternoon sun lit the centre of the bed, making Nixon's fair skin gold and gleaming.

"Not bad, huh?" Winters said mildly. His arms looped around Carwood's waist and he rested his chin on Carwood shoulder as he too took in the view.

"No, sir," Carwood breathed, forgetting that they were supposed to be using Christian names now.

Winters started unbuckling Carwood's belt, which meant his knuckles brushed Carwood's cock through his pants, and it was getting difficult to think.

"Do you want to take him?" Winters asked. He had Carwood's fly open now, and pushed his skivvies down to lightly pump his cock. His hand was rough with callous and almost painful against Carwood's skin. "He's making himself ready for you."

Carwood had to lick his lips and gather what remained of his wits before he could say, "You don't want to, uh...?"

"You like 'em wet and sloppy?" Nixon asked from the bed, which wasn't an image Carwood was prepared to handle, not with Winters' thumb rubbing the head of Carwood's cock. "Can take you both." He paused, sucking on his lip. "Maybe not at the same time. I'm not that much of a slut."

"You're not a slut, Nix," Winters said, the fondness in his voice completely at odds with the way he was squeezing the base of Carwood's cock to keep him from coming then and there.

To disprove Winters' point, Nix pulled his hand out, squeezed more KY on it, and thrust four fingers into himself at once, groaning low in his chest as he did.

"Fuck," Carwood said, even though he knew Winters didn't like that kind of profanity.

"That's the idea," Nixon agreed. "Get a move on."

Winters dropped to his knees beside Carwood and started on his bootlaces, a distracting reminder of the reserve position behind Haguenau and of that terrible night when Nixon had hit rock bottom. Carwood stroked Winters' hair like he'd wanted to both times. It was bright and clean again now, and soft under his touch. His cock was inches from Winters' face, and being ignored as Winters pulled first one jump boot than the other off, and stripped Carwood out of his pants and skivvies.

Naked except for his dog tags, Carwood took a tentative step towards the bed. He jumped as Winters playfully slapped his ass on the way by, but he couldn't take his eyes off Nixon. He stopped when his knees bumped into the edge of the mattress, then started to crawl across it until he was kneeling between Nixon's spread legs. He could pull Nixon's hand right out and just press into him, feel Nixon's legs wrapping around his hips and sweet tightness of his ass. Carwood knew he's last about a minute and a half if he did that, and he wanted to draw it out.

Carwood bent and took the tip of Nixon's cock in his mouth. It was thick and uncut, and Carwood knew he wouldn't be able to swallow it all down. He pressed his hands flat across Nixon's hipbones to hold him flat as he sucked.

"Aw, Jeeze," Nixon moaned, and grabbed a handful of Carwood's hair with his free hand, pulling just hard enough to hurt. Nixon stopped pumping into himself with his fingers, and Carwood heard his breathing change to low whining pants as Carwood ran his tongue along the edge of Nixon's foreskin. Carwood pushed it back away from the head of Nixon's cock and sucked at the same time, making Nixon try to buck up into his mouth and start to swear in earnest.

"Don't let him come yet," Winters ordered, and the ring of command in his voice made a guilty shiver run down Carwood's spine. Being bossed around by his C.O. should not turn him on this much. Winters belt buckle clinked as he undressed. Carwood almost regretted that, mind catching on the image of Winters fucking him with just the fly of his service uniform open, or sucking Winters off while Winters was in his Class As and Carwood was naked. Another time, maybe, if there was one.

The way Carwood was kneeling—legs spread for balance, head down to suck Nixon off—Winters had to have a pretty good look at Carwood's ass. He hoped Winters liked the addition to the show. He knew he wasn't Hollywood handsome like Nixon, nor did he have the oddly compelling lean beauty of Winters. He was just Carwood, scared and war-worn like the rest of the men. Nothing for it though; they'd been the ones to ask him to be here.

Instead of worrying about it, Carwood refocused his attention on Nixon. He bobbed down slowly, swirling his tongue along the bottom of Nixon's cock as he went but not sucking any more. When the head bumped the back of Carwood's throat, he stopped and held where he was, flexing his fingers against Nixon's hips. Carwood stayed there for a moment. He could hear Nixon's harsh breathing as he tried to control himself and the soft fall of clothing hitting the floor, then boots. Still Carwood held, knowing how he must look with the better part of Nixon's cock swallowed down an his ass up and ready to be taken. He wondered if Winters would want to fuck him just like that, right where he was.

It seemed like Winters did. Carwood felt a hand on the side of his hip. Winters' fingers were warm, and he stroked the down the outside of Carwood's thigh and then up the inside, sending shivers thought Carwood as the hairs on his legs tickled backwards. Winters' fingertips outlined the jagged line of the scares the tank shell had left. Carwood knew the skin was red and twisted from the field hospital's rushed job, and he moaned and dismay at the idea of Winters seeing that.

Nixon's hand let go of Carwood's hair, smoothed it flat with his palm, then grabbed it again. "Make him do that again, Dick," he gasped.

"Like that?" Winters asked. He moved his hands away from Carwood's scared thigh and curled his fingers around Carwood's balls, rolling them lightly against his palm. Carwood's entire body tensed as he struggled to hold in his release, and this time his moan was high-pitched and needy, sound choked against Nixon's cock.

"Yeah, just like that," Nixon sighed. His hips flexed against Carwood's grip as he tried to thrust into Carwood's throat, but Carwood held him firmly against the mattress. Winters was using Carwood to play with Nixon, and Carwood felt vaguely that he should mind, but it was difficult to care with Winters' rough hand caressing his balls. His blood pounded in his ears, and he couldn't think with how hard he was.

Carwood drew away, tightening his mouth around Nixon's cock as he did, making it a slow drag of skin on skin. It made Nixon shiver and buck under him. Looking up through his lashes, Carwood could see the Nixon's chest heaving, gleaming with perspiration caught in the sunshine, and beyond that Nixon's face turned against the pillows. Carwood couldn't see his eyes, but imagined they were closed. When he got to the head of Nixon's cock, Carwood rolled the tip of his tongue over the hole, lapping up the come beading there.

"Nix, come on," Winters said. He let go of Carwood and clapped his hands. Nixon groped blindly across the bed and tossed Winters something that gleamed as it arc past Carwood's head and slapped into Winters' hands. A moment later, Winters ran a slick finger between Carwood's ass cheeks and Carwood realised it must have been the tube of KY. Winters' fingertips reached Carwood's hole and stopped, circling slowly, like he was waiting for permission, like he couldn't do anything he wanted to Carwood right then, or any time he wanted.

"Suck three times if you want him to fuck you," Nixon said sardonically. "I'll pass it on."

Carwood couldn't help it; he laughed, almost choked on Nixon's cock, and had to pull away and bury his face against the crease of Nixon's thigh. "Sorry, sir," he tried to say, but it was lost under another breathless laugh. 

Nixon pulled his fingers out of his ass, and wiped the lube off on his stomach before patting Carwood's shoulder tentatively. "You okay, Lip?" he asked.

Carwood nodded helplessly against Nixon's hip. He didn't even know why this was so funny, just that he was dizzy with desire and—now that he considered it—happiness. He was in bed with two men he'd admired and on some level lusted after for years, warm in the sunshine, safe from the war, and they wanted him. Winters stroked Carwood's back then patted his shoulder just below Nixon's hand.

"I'm fine, Lew," Carwood said, catching his breath. Nixon's Christian name came more naturally than it should have. To prove it, Carwood turned his face and sucked at the side of Nixon's cock then licked along the base just above his balls.

Nixon sucked in a sharp breath. "Yeah, he's fine," he said.

"All right," Winters agreed. He sounded a little dubious, but he started playing with Carwood's ass again. His slicked fingers squeezed each cheek before finding Carwood's hole again and pressing lightly. Carwood rolled his hips back against Winters' hand, trying to drive himself onto his fingers. It didn't work—he didn't have the angle right—but Winters got the message and pressed the tips of two fingers in to the first knuckle. Carwood pushed back again, but Winters drew back, not letting Carwood fuck himself. "As you were," Winters said.

Nixon snorted, but Carwood was happy to follow this order. He lifted his head and took Nixon's cock back into his mouth. As he slid back down its length, Winters' fingers pushed into his ass with equal slowness. Carwood moaned at the feeling—the burn of being stretched, the heat of letting someone touch him there. Nixon swore. Carwood had to swallow back the spit building in his mouth, which made Nixon swear again, and demand that Winters hurry up.

"Nix can be a pushy S.O.B.," Winters commented mildly, like his fingers weren't inside Carwood's ass as deep as they could go.

"You should, try his mouth. Christ, he's good." Nixon was trying to sound conversational, but his voice squeaked on the last word when Winters hooked his fingers inside Carwood, and Carwood sucked instinctively. Carwood drew back slowly, sucking a little this time, enjoying how he could make Nix whine and thrash with just his mouth.

"Next time," Winters said, which made Carwood happy in a way he hadn't imagined he could still feel. He spread his fingers wide and pulled them out, stretching Carwood's ass, and squeezing on more lube as he pushed back in. Winters was taking the time to do a proper job, even though Carwood hardly minded a quick, rough fuck now and then. He wanted to ask Winters to hurry the hell up, but could only indicate that by pushing push his ass back.

Carwood moaned again, throat vibrating against the head of Nixon's cock, and Nixon's fingers tightened in his hair. Carwood could feel Nixon's body tensing and shifting under him, and knew he was about to come, so he backed off quickly. Nixon's cock popped free from his lips, and Carwood blew on the head. The coolness of his breath on spit-slicked skin made Nixon shout and pound the bed beside his hip, but he didn't come.

Winters slide another finger and more lube into Carwood's ass. He must be using damn near the whole tube, Carwood thought. He was carefully not touching the sweet spot inside Carwood, which would have finished Carwood off without anyone putting a hand on his cock. Winters' other hand held Carwood's hip steady, and his movements were slow and meticulous. Carwood had thought, guilty, about what being fucked by Winters would be like, and this wasn't far off the fantasy. Except that it felt so much better than Carwood could have imagined, and he'd never even dared to think about being with both of them at once.

"I'm good to go," Carwood said, voice muffled against Nixon's thigh. He rubbed his check backwards against Nixon's leg hair, knowing his stubble would scrape the soft skin. Nixon hissed. Carwood had remembered to leave off the _sir_ , but couldn't call Winters _Dick_ the way he'd called Nixon _Lew_.

"You sure about that?" Winters asked, a laugh in his voice. "I figure I could go a little longer."

"For Christ's sake," Nixon grumbled. He pulled away from Carwood and rolled over onto his hands and knees, then shuffled back and spread his legs as wide as he would go. His ass gleamed with lube, his balls hung heavy between his legs, and his cock arched up and out of view. Carwood stared at the full round curves of Nixon's ass, wanting to bite and make Nixon cry out. "Lip, do me a favour and ignore him."

That was hard to do with Winters curling his fingers into a ball and twisting them back and forth. If Carwood moved forward and took Nixon up on his obvious invitation, it would mean pulling away from Winters, and he really didn't want to do that. He knew he was about to be more slowly and thoroughly fucked than he ever had been in his life, and he planned to stay right where he was. Carwood leaned in and licked the back of Nixon's balls, making his ass clench, then pressed his tongue to the soft place behind them.

"Jesus Christ," Nixon gasped through gritted teeth. "Don't make me beg, Lip."

"You should make him beg," Winters said, so Carwood nipped the inside of Nixon's thigh then licked sloppily over his balls before nipping the other side. The bit marks stood out bright pink against Nixon's pale skin. Carwood ran his tongue over the first one, then sucked hard at the tender skin.

Nixon jerked and sobbed under him, his legs trembling, but he didn't start to beg until Carwood took his balls between his lips and ran his tongue over them between sucks. "Jesus, please, Lip," he babbled. "You need to fuck me. I need you to fuck me. Please, I can't... I need..." Nixon's words lost coherence as Carwood sucked in time with Winters fingers, which pumped in and out of him relentlessly. "Please," Nixon whimpered into the pillow, then finally, small and almost inaudible: "Carwood, please."

"I think I should..." Carwood started to say.

"Yeah," Winters agreed, pulling his fingers out of Carwood's ass, leaving Carwood feeling empty and unsatisfied. "It's only fair."

Carwood swiped his tongue up to Nixon's asshole as he pulled away. His joints creaked as he pushed himself up into a kneeling position, and his ass still wanted to feel Winters on it or in it again. Carwood wanted just to touched again. It had been so long.

He patted the bed behind him until Winters put the tube of KY in his hand, and then slicked himself up. Carwood had to think of winter and frozen boots to keep from shooting across Nixon's ass, especially when he considered what that would look like. He didn't bother preparing Nixon. He didn't need to. Nixon's ass was tight around Carwood's cock, but he didn't resist, and Carwood rocked in easily, each thrust going a little deeper.

Nixon grunted and pushed back into each thrust, and Carwood realised he was biting the pillow to muffle his screams. Carwood held onto Nixon's hips to keep himself steady as much as to hold Nixon in place. He had to pause and catch his breath once his balls brushed the back of Nixon's thighs. Nixon muttered something indistinct, though his tone made the intent clear.

"Hold on, will you, Lew?" Carwood said, panting a little. He needed to get his act together if he was going to make this good for Nixon.

Behind them, the bed creaked and dipped. Carwood had expected Winters' hands on his ass again, but didn't expect Winters to wrap his arms around Carwood's waist and tug him back until his back rested flush against Winters' chest. He could feel Winters' dog tags digging into his spine, and the hard line of Winters' cock along the inside of Carwood's thigh. Winters kissed the back of Carwood's neck and said into his ear, "Think you can push back onto me, Carwood?"

Unable to speak, Carwood nodded. He dropped his head and pulled slowly out of Nixon, who whimpered complainingly. As he moved back, Winters shifted so that the tip of his cock rested against Carwood's asshole. Winters didn't move an inch after that, but held Carwood against his chest, and made Carwood push himself back against Winters' cock until he'd worked the head inside himself. Winters was a big man, and his cock stretched Carwood in a way that his fingers hadn't, but Carwood kept going. His own cock pulled out of Nixon as he impaled himself on Winters, and he was feeling so many things at once that all he could do was breathe and focus on moving. Carwood didn't want to pull all the way out of Nixon, and stopped with his the head of his cock just inside Nixon's ass. Winters tightened his arms around Carwood's waist and pushed in the last little bit until his hipbones dug into Carwood's ass.

Winters kissed the back of Carwood's neck again, lips lingering just behind his ear, whispering, "You're doing well. You feel real good." His hands caressed Carwood's stomach and chest, and Carwood felt like crying all of a sudden. His emotions were raw and exposed, like they'd been skinned, and the praise went straight to his heart. Carwood tipped his head back and twisted to kiss Winters. It was an awkward, sideways thing, but Carwood needed it.

Nixon sighed under him, indicating his displeasure at being left out even for a moment.

Winters laughed against Carwood's mouth, and reached around to stroke Nixon's cock. "He likes to be the centre of attention," Winters said, repeating Nixon's earlier words.

"Damn right I do," Nixon murmured, still half out of it. "Carwood, please," he said again.

Carwood pulled off of Winters and drove back into Nixon, moving slow to get a feel for how this was going to work. Winters other hand let go of Carwood's chest to intertwine with his fingers on Nixon's hip, making Nixon the anchor point, with Carwood swaying between them. Nixon's ass tightened as Winters stroked his cock, clenching down as Carwood thrust into him. Carwood had to squeeze his eyes shut to block out the sight of Nix's gleaming back, the way the muscles of his shoulders flexed, and the dark tousle of Nixon's hair against the pillow. Nixon was too beautiful for this to be real, and Carwood couldn't look at him without something in his chest clenching so tight he couldn't breathe.

He got the rhythm figured out after that. Carwood pulled out of Nixon—who moaned and clenched down and tried to thrust his ass back to keep Carwood's cock inside him—and onto Winter's broad cock—which stretched and filled him, and sent waves of pleasure up Carwood's spine and right into his brain—then back into Nixon again. Winter's stroked Nixon's cock with each of Carwood's thrusts, keeping pace as he sped up. With every stroke, Nixon whimpered and wiggled his ass against Carwood, who had to bite his lip and squeeze his eyes closed to keep from coming, while Winters pressed open-mouthed kisses across Carwood's shoulders and neck.

Carwood knew he wouldn't be able to keep it up for long. It was too much and felt too good. He hung onto Nixon's hips, and tried to push down the heat building in him, but his whole body vibrated with it, and he felt dizzy and far away. The pressure around his cock and Winters' hand over his on Nixon's hip were all that kept him from flying away.

Winters rested his chin on Carwood's shoulder again, breathing hard now, his chest heaving against Carwood's back. His knuckles cracked as he clung to Nixon's hip, and Carwood could feel his strokes up Nixon's cock starting to become uneven. How Winters was holding still while Carwood fucked himself on him, Carwood had no idea. He couldn't have done it. Nixon whimpered brokenly with each stroke, now completely lost in sensation.

As Carwood thrust into him, Nixon came with a long moan, shooting across the bed. He tried to slump forward, but Carwood held his hips in place, and tried to hold on as Nixon's ass clenched and his body writhed under Carwood. Winters was still stroking Nixon—more lightly now, movements slowing—even as Winters gasped against Carwood's shoulder.

Nixon kept whimpering and squirming under Carwood, pushing back against him half heartedly as Carwood sped up and slapped against Nixon's ass with the steady beat of a marching pace. Carwood's hips seemed to move on their own, and he just held onto Nixon and let his body carry him away as the pressure built and built inside him. He finally released with a shout he had to muffle against Nixon's back.

They all tumbled onto the bed after that, Winters still hard inside Carwood, Carwood slipping out of Nixon as they tipped sideways and fell over. Winters wrapped his arms around Carwood's middle again to keep them together, nuzzling the back of Carwood's neck. His hips were finally moving. Winters jerked spasmodically against Carwood's ass, and Carwood lifted his leg to give Winters a better angle. The push of Winters' cock inside him felt like too much now-every brush over the sensitive spot in Carwood's ass too intense for pleasure—but he wouldn't resist or pull away, so he rode it out.

Nixon rolled over and sleepily kissed Carwood while Winters finished fucking him. Carwood lay limply in the middle of the bed and let Nixon stroke his sides and pet his face while they kissed and Winters huffed out a tight, pained-sounding breath with each short thrust. Winters wrapped his arms tight around Carwood's ribs, almost crushing them, and came hard. He whispered, "Carwood, damn," into the back of his neck and then going completely still.

Carwood didn't want to move again. Nixon was still kissing him, and Carwood liked the feel of Winters slack cock inside him. He thought he could stay where they were just like that forever. Maybe Winters would get hard in a little while and start fucking him again while Carwood sucked Nixon off. The love making didn't have to end, he thought. They were young and against all odds still alive, and they could just keep going, a an afternoon stretched into an infinity.

"This is the best idea you've ever had," Nixon said, breaking away so that he could lean over Carwood and kiss Winters.

"Really?" Winters asked, feigning surprise. He was still breathing raggedly, and had to pause and swallow before he could ask, "better than the time when we—"

Nixon shut him up by kissing him hard, again pressing Carwood between their bodies.

"This was your idea, Dick?" Carwood asked, not sure why that surprised him. He did know why it gratified him. The whole of Second Battalion lapped up every scrap of Winters' attention, to be picked and offered this, even if it was just a one time thing...

"Sure," Winters said, "wanted to ask you for a while, but.."

"Think of it as a _Welcome to Battalion Staff_ present," Nixon finished. He tugged at Carwood's shoulder, pulling him over until Carwood's head rested on his chest. It made Winters' cock slide out of his ass, but that didn't really matter now. Winters spooned up behind Carwood and rested his forehead on Carwood's spine just between his shoulder blades.

Carwood wondered if that's why he'd gotten the job, but in the end he didn't believe that Winters would put sex in front of what was good for his men. Winters probably saw even this as a weakness, and Carwood had to wonder what would happen next. "It's an honour to serve," Carwood said, and Winters' chest shook as he laughed.

"It can happen again," Nixon said, scratching his hand through the hair at the back of Carwood's neck, "if you want it to." 

It wasn't a choice Carwood should make while he was still coming down off the best sex in his life, but Carwood said, "I'd like that," anyway, and pressed a kiss to Nixon's chest right above his heart.

The afternoon sun was too hot, and they were all filthy with perspiration and come, and at very least needed to wash and change the sheets, but neither of the others made any sign of moving, and Carwood didn't want to be the first. Eventually he drifted off to sleep, wrapped tightly in Winters arms with Nixon's hand still in his hair.


End file.
